"He can't have gone far, for he has left his coat and hat behind him,"

were Andrew's reflections; and as he said this, he looked for his watch,

and then for his clothes. Amazement! they were all gone; watch, shirt,

coat, vest, and inexpressibles--all had vanished. In a paroxysm of fury

he rang the bell; and, presently, the voice of Kirsty, from without,

inquired, as she half-opened the door, and thrust forward a pair of well

worn Wellingtons, which Andrew recognised as not belonging to him--"D'ye

please to want onything else?"

"Anything else!" roared Andrew, choking with rage, and utterly

regardless of the respect due to the sex of the speaker. "Come in here,

and help me to find my trowsers!"

"O you--ye'll wait awhile, I'm thinkin, or I do siccan a thing."

"Zounds! that infernal fellow must have carried them off!" muttered

Andrew.

"Na, na," said Kirsty; "it's no the infernal gentleman ava, man. I wadna

be the least surprised but it's that auld punchy buddy that sleepit in

this room last nicht, and ran awa this morning, wi' the nine o'clock

omnibush, without payin his reckonin, that's ta'en yer breeks; but ye

needna mind, ye can just pit on _his_ for a day."

This was too much. To be told that he himself was the thief of his own

o-no-we-never-mention-ems, and that he had run away that morning without

paying his reckoning, was more than Andrew Micklewhame could bear.

"Are you mad, woman?" cried he. "Confound you, I'll leave your house

instantly, and bring an action for the recovery of my clothes."

"Your claes, quotha--your claes. My man, thae tricks winna do here, I

can tell ye. Ye're fund oot at last. My certie, to hear a fallow speakin

o' claes, whan it's weel kenned he had nae mair than a brown greatcoat,

an auld hat, an' a pair o' boots I wadna gie tippence for. Ye're fund

oot at last. There's twa chaps below has twa or three words to say to

ye."

"They may go to the devil, and you along with them!" was Andrew's pert

rejoinder.

"Bide a bit--just bide a bit. Hy," cried Kirsty, seemingly over the

banisters of the stair, to some unknown individual or individuals below.

"Stap up this way, will ye?"

And fast upon the heels of this summons, in walked two justice of peace

officers, who, despite the asseverations of Mr. Andrew Micklewhame that

he was himself and no other, ordered him to don the brown greatcoat, and

the shocking bad hat, and follow them.

"We've pursued you from Queensferry," said the first--"round by

Edinburgh, Glasgow, and Stirling; and Grog the innkeeper is determined

to punish you, unless you pay him for the eight weeks' board you had in

his house, and our expenses over and above."

It was in vain that Mr. Micklewhame protested he had never been in

Queensferry in his life; nor had he the honour of the acquaintance of

Grog, the innkeeper; but, at length, seeing that it was impossible to

convince the officers to the contrary he thought it advisable to pay

the amount of their demand, and trust to law and justice afterwards for

retribution. Even with this he found himself unable to comply--his

purse, containing every rap he owned in the world, was in the pockets of

his inexpressibles.

There was no help for it. With despair in his countenance, he donned the

shabby brown greatcoat and the dilapidated Wellingtons, took the

shocking bad hat in his hand, and, in silence, followed the officers of

justice down stairs, determining to appeal to the generosity of the

landlady, who, he had no doubt, would give full credence to his story.

The present mishap of Mr. Micklewhame had arisen solely from the fact of

his having taken so much toddy overnight, which was the cause of his

sleeping longer and more soundly in the morning than usual. Kirsty, ever

vigilant, had gone to the door of the double-bedded room and knocked, at

the same time calling out, with a stentorian voice, that "the omnibush

was ready to start." All this was unheeded by Andrew, who slept on,

utterly unconscious of the progress of time. Not so, however, was it

with the other occupant of the chamber; for no sooner did he hear

Kirsty's summons, than a lucky thought occurred to him; and he bawled

through the door, in tones "not loud but deep," that he would be down

instantly. He then proceeded, in the coolest manner possible, to adorn

himself in the habiliments of his somniferous neighbour; which, he soon

perceived, were a "world too wide" for him--a fault which he instantly

remedied by the assistance of a pillow, disposed of after the manner he

had seen greater actors than himself "make themselves up" for the

character of Falstaff. Thus equipped, he removed Andrew's watch from

beneath the pillow, and placed it in the same pocket it had occupied the

preceding day; took off his portable bushy whiskers, and put them in his

pocket; then bidding adieu to his brown greatcoat and napless hat,

which, with the accompaniment of a pair of well-worn Wellington boots,

had been his only attire for many a day, he strode from the apartment,

carefully shutting the door behind him. As he got to the foot of the

stairs, there was Kirsty in the outer passage. For a moment he felt

undetermined what course next to pursue; but his never-failing wit came

to his aid, and, stepping into a side room, the window of which looked

out into the street, he desired Kirsty to bring him his bill of

fare--_i. e._, the bill of fare peculiar to Mr. Andrew Micklewhame--and

a sheet of writing-paper, with pens and ink. Those being brought, and

Kirsty having shut the door, leaving him "all alone in his glory," he

scribbled a few lines on the paper, and made it up in the form of a

letter. This was no sooner done, than the "impatient bugle"--_vulgo

vocato_, tin horn--of the ominous cad, who stood on the opposite side of

the street, just behind the omnibus, holding open the door with his left

hand, blew a blast so loud and shrill, that all those in waiting in the

street, who had serious intentions of proceeding to Stirling by that

conveyance, seemed, of one accord, to know that it was their last

warning; so, shaking hands with the friends who had come "to see them

off," they scrambled nimbly up the steps of the omnibus, and passed from

before the view of the bystanders into its ponderous interior. Our actor

saw this, and, without more ado, he opened the window and jumped into

the street. His letter he deposited in the post-office receiving-box,

and his body in the omnibus, which, being now full, the cad banged to

the door, gave the signal to the driver, and off the omnibus rattled;

nor did Kirsty or her mistress know of the escapement of their guest,

whom they both believed to be Andrew Micklewhame, until he was a

considerable part on his way to Stirling.

* * * * *

Kirsty was in the bar, stamping the post-mark on some letters--for her

mistress was post_master_--and talking to a young woman with bright

eyes.

"The villain that he is!" said Kirsty. "A married man! Wha wad hae

thocht it? an' a playactor too, crinkypatie! He'll be doon the noo, and

ye'll see him then. There's twa gentlemen gaen up to him a wee while

ago."

At this moment the landlady opened the door of a parlour off the bar,

and handed to Kirsty some letters, which she had been ostensibly

arranging for delivery--in reality, making herself acquainted with their

contents.

"Here's six for delivery, and one to lie till called for!" Kirsty took

them; and as her mistress shut the door, read aloud from the back of the

letter--"'To lie till called for.' The name, 'Mrs. Isabella Young!'"

"What!" exclaimed the dark-eyed young woman starting, "a letter for me?"

and she almost snatched it out of Kirsty's hand. A gleam of joy played

upon her handsome face as she read--

"DEAR ISY,--I enclose you a crown; if you want more, apply to

Manager Trash for my arrears of salary. I'm off to Perth with

the toggery of an old fellow who slept in the same room with me

last night. They'll perhaps talk of pursuing me; if so, detain

them as long as possible, and follow, at your leisure,

"Your affectionate

"PATRICK YOUNG."

At this juncture appeared Andrew in the custody of the two officers; and

the damsel of the dark eyes, taking her cue from the document she had

just perused, rushed forward and threw herself into his arms,

exclaiming, "My own, my lost one!--Oh, do not--do not drag my husband

from me!" The latter part of her sentence was addressed to the officers

of justice.

"Loshifycairyme!" cried Kirsty; "he's lost his bonny black whiskers, and

turned fatter nor he was!" Then, after a moment's reflection, she

added--"But thae player buddies can do onything!"

"My pretty one," said Andrew, "I know nothing of you!" Yet the young

woman still clung to her embrace. "You vile woman," he continued, waxing

wroth, "get you gone. I'll tell your husband if you don't!" But Mrs.

Young clung close and closer to him. He then addressed himself to

Kirsty, desiring her to inform her mistress that he wished to say a few

words to her. "Tell her," he continued, "that I am in great tribulation

here, and I wish her to advance a small sum of money to these gentlemen,

which will be returned with grateful thanks as soon as I get to

Edinburgh."

Kirsty grumbled a little at being sent on such an errand; but proceeded

into the little parlour off the bar. In a few seconds she returned,

saying--"My mistress'll no advance money to ony man unless to her lawfu'

husband; and she says gif ye like to marry her, she'll do't, but no

unless. I'm sure I dinna ken what she means, seeing ye're a married man

already!"

"What!" exclaimed Andrew, "marry a woman I never saw?"

"On nae ither condition will she advance the money. Between oorsels, my

mistress is worth at least twa thousand."

"Two thousand pounds!" thought Andrew. "The speculation wouldn't be such

a bad one after all." And, after a show of hesitation, he gave a

reluctant consent, as the only way, and a speedy one, to relieve him

from his difficulties. His private debts amounted to at least a hundred

pounds; and with two thousand pounds he could pay that; ay, and live

like a prince besides.

The whole party was ushered into the little back parlour, where, to

complete Andrew's amazement, he descried, seated over a cup of coffee,

the identical Widow Brown to whom he had given the slip six years

before. She rose and shook him by the hand.

"Be not amazed!" she said. "The moment I saw you, from the window of

this room, enter my inn yesterday, I recognised you, and my love for you

returned. I know all." She certainly did, for she had read Patrick

Young's letter to his wife. "I shall procure your immediate release; and

should you rue the consent you have just given, you are free to return

to Edinburgh as you came--a single man!"

"Generous woman!" cried Andrew, sinking on one knee, "this--this is too

much! Think ye I could again desert you? No, by heaven!"--Here he laid

his hand upon his breast, and turned up the white of his eyes in an

attempt to look pathetic. The widow raised him and led him to a seat.

The officers were dismissed; and the damsel with the dark eyes escaped

through the open door as they went out, fearful of being detained for

her deceitful attempt upon the person of Andrew Micklewhame.

In a few days the nuptials were solemnized; and Andrew Micklewhame ever

blessed the lucky chance that led him to Alloa.

History is silent regarding the ultimate fate of Mr. Patrick Young; but

it is to be hoped that he was either hanged or sent to Botany Bay.

Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Micklewhame thought it worth their while to pursue

him for the injuries he had done them; and Grog, the innkeeper, could

not, for his myrmidons had lost the scent of the stroller from the

moment he fled from Alloa.

THE HIGHLAND BOY.

Strange, sometimes, are the destinies of men, and mysterious the ways of

Providence. In these expressions there is nothing new, for they have

been repeated a thousand times before; but we are not sure that they

have often been more strikingly illustrated than in the following short

narrative--alas! "owre true a tale." Within a short distance of the town

of Inverary, in Argyleshire, there lived, towards the middle of last

century, a person of the name of M'Lauchlane. He was a miller to

business; but, if any idea be formed of his circumstances as such, or of

the general condition and appearance of his establishment, from those of

the "jolly millers" of the low country, with their large, well-built,

slated mills, filled with expensive machinery--their comfortable houses,

and rough and round abundance--it will be a very erroneous one. The

highland miller--he, at any rate, of the last century--was a very

different person, and very differently circumstanced. His business was

trifling, as it must, of necessity, have been, in a country yielding but

little corn--just sufficient, and barely so, to support, with other

aids, its thin and widely scattered population. His mill was a small,

thatched, crazy building; and its machinery (almost all of wood), the

clumsy, rude workmanship of the miller himself. Such, at any rate, was

M'Lauchlane's establishment--a very poor affair; and very poor, though

very industrious, and an honest and upright man, was M'Lauchlane

himself. Yet, strange as it may seem in a person in his situation in

life, he was not only an upright man, but a man of some education, of a

grave and intelligent cast of countenance, and of a tall and athletic

form.

For fifteen years, M'Lauchlane toiled on his little farm with unwearied

assiduity, struggling with a barren soil, that scarcely yielded a

subsistence for his family, leaving no surplus for sale, the rent being

paid by a few black cattle reared for the purpose; and more than half of

that time dividing this labour with attendance on his little mill; and

other fifteen years, had he lived so long, would, in all probability,

have found him still thus employed, had not a circumstance occurred

which suddenly changed his destiny. He quarrelled with his landlord, and

resolved suddenly, in a fit of exasperation, upon leaving his mill. He

never gave any further particulars of the occurrence which had galled

his proud spirit. He never said what was the cause of quarrel between

him and his laird; but the fancied disgrace of some harsh word which the

latter had used towards him, preyed on his mind, and, in less than a

fortnight after, he resigned his mill and his farm, and proceeded to the

low country in search of employment. This he found in Edinburgh, where

he had some friends, in the humble capacity of a caddie, or chairman.

On leaving the place of his residence in the Highlands, M'Lauchlane left

behind him, until he should fall into some way of earning a subsistence,

his wife, a son, and two daughters. The son was, at this period, about

fifteen years of age; a fine, manly-looking boy, of kind and amiable

dispositions, the pride of his mother's heart, and the stay of his

father's hopes. It was not doubted that, on the latter obtaining

employment, he would succeed in procuring some situation or other in

Edinburgh for his son also; and, with these, and sundry other little

plans and prospects, the family of M'Lauchlane, including himself,

looked forward to the enjoyment of some happy days. Having obtained

employment himself, M'Lauchlane lost no time in looking out for an

engagement for his son; and, at length, found an opening for him in a

merchant's counting-house in Leith. This good fortune he speedily

communicated to his family, desiring that James should immediately set

out for Edinburgh. James, however, had been already unexpectedly

provided for, although not altogether to his liking. He had been engaged

to assist some salmon-curers who had an establishment in the

neighbourhood; and with these he was now employed. The wages, however,

were small, and the work heavy; but it was considered by the dutiful boy

himself a desirable situation, as it enabled him to reside with his

mother, whom he tenderly loved, and to contribute more promptly and

efficiently to her support than if he were at a distance. On these

accounts, therefore, he determined to remain in his present employment

for some time at least--this was till the ensuing term, when it was

proposed that the whole family should proceed to Edinburgh, to join

their head; and this was stated in reply to James' father, who, though

he longed to have his boy with him, acquiesced in its propriety; and

thus matters stood for several weeks, when it was found that James'

strength was unequal to the labour imposed on him. The poor lad was long

unwilling to admit this, even to himself, and continued to toil on with

uncomplaining perseverance; but a mother's anxiety and scrutinizing

solicitude soon discovered what he would have concealed. She saw, from

his wan cheek and sunken eye, that he was tasked beyond his strength,

and that a continuance much longer in his present employment might even

endanger his life. Impressed with this idea, she insisted on him

quitting it, and proceeding immediately to Edinburgh to join his father.

"But, mother," said the affectionate boy, "what will you do without me?

My wages, though small, are a great help to you."

"They are, James, no doubt," replied his mother; "but what are your

wages, or what would all the gold and silver in the world be to me,

compared to your life, my child? Think ye that anything could compensate

that to your mother, James? No, no; all the wealth of the Indies, my

son, would be nothing to me, if anything was to happen you. Besides, you

can help me even where you are going. You can remit me a little of your

wages, along with what your father sends from his; and, at the term, you

know, which is now only four months distant, we will all be together

again, and as happy as the day's long."

Thus reasoned with, and feeling his own physical inadequacy to continue

in his present employment, the boy finally consented to leave it, and to

proceed to Edinburgh, to join his father. It was not thought necessary

to give the latter any previous intimation of this change in his son's

views; and no communication, therefore, took place on the subject.

The day fixed for the boy's departure having arrived, a little bundle,

containing some small articles of wearing apparel, and some bread and

cheese, was made up for him by the hands of his doting mother, whose

tears fell fast and thick on the little humble package, as she tied it

up. This completed, the boy took down a staff from amongst many that

were hung to the roof of the cottage, thrust one end of it through the

bundle, shouldered it manfully, clapped his bonnet on his head, and was

about suddenly to rush out of the house, finding that he could not stand

a more deliberate parting; when his mother, flying after him, caught him

by the arm just as he had reached the door, and, murmuring his name,

clasped him in her arms, and, in silent anguish, pressed him

convulsively to her bosom. The weeping boy returned the fond embrace of

his mother; but, at length, tore himself away, and hurried off, with a

speed that soon carried him out of her sight.

The lad had now a long journey before him, not less than a hundred and

fifty miles, the whole of which was to be performed on foot, for there

were then no conveyances on his intended route; and, although there had,

he had no money to pay for their use; but, as he was active and

vigorous, and accustomed to rove over his native hills like a young

deer, a journey on foot of even a hundred and fifty miles had nothing

formidable whatever in it for him; and it was, therefore, with a

fearless heart and bounding step that he now took the long, wild, and

dreary highland road, that was to conduct him to the city in which his

father resided.

In about four months after the boy had left home to join his father in

Edinburgh, his mother, with her two daughters, also proceeded to that

city, and for the same purpose; the period having arrived which,

according to previous understanding, was to see the family once more

united under one roof. We will not attempt to describe the poor mother's

feelings of joyous anticipation on this occasion, as she looked forward

to the exquisite happiness of embracing the two objects whom she loved

best on earth, her husband and son. These feelings were such as the

reader can imagine for himself without our aid or interference.

On M'Lauchlane's wife and daughters arriving, which they did in due time

and in safety, at the humble domicile which the farmer's dutiful

affection had provided for them in Edinburgh, the first question she

asked of her husband, and she put it ere she had yet fairly entered his

door, was--

"Where is James? Where is my dear boy, Fergus?"

"Why, Margaret," replied M'Lauchlane, laughingly, "you should know that

fully better than I do. Where did you leave him?" The boy had never

reached his father's house.

"Come, come, now, Fergus, none of your tricks," said his wife, smiling.

"Tell me where my boy is--I cannot rest till I see him."

"Ha, ha!" rejoined her husband, now laughing outright, "you keep up the

farce very well, Margaret; but, come, now, let James be produced; for

_I_ am impatient to see him. You want to tantalize me a little."

"Or rather it is you that wish to tantalize me, Fergus," replied his

wife, good-humouredly; "but do not keep me longer in pain, I beseech

you. Go and bring James to me immediately. Do now, I entreat of you."

"Margaret," said M'Lauchlane, now somewhat alarmedly--for the earnest

manner of his wife struck him as very strange, and as carrying very

little of jocularity in it--"Margaret," he said, gravely, "is this jest

or earnest? Is James not with you?--and, if he is not, where is he?"

"Gracious heavens!" exclaimed his wife, in an agony of horror--she in

turn having marked the serious manner of her husband--"what is this come

over us? O Fergus, Fergus," she said, in dreadful agitation, and

flinging her arms around her husband in wild despair, "has not James

been with you for these three months past? He left home to come to you

then, and I always believed him to be with you. O my God, my God! where

is my child? What has come over my boy?" And she gave way to a fearful

and uncontrollable paroxysm of grief.

During this scene, her husband sat silent and motionless; but there were

dreadful workings going on in his bosom. His face was deadly pale, and

his lips quivered with agonizing emotion.

"I have never seen him, Margaret," he at length said, in a slow and

solemn tone--"never seen him. What has come over my boy?" And the strong

man burst into tears.

We need not prolong our description of the scene of misery which ensued

on the appalling discovery being made, as it now was, that the poor boy

had never reached his destination. His distracted father instantly set

about the apparently hopeless task of ascertaining what had been his

fate; but, for some weeks after, all remained as great a mystery as

ever; and no exertion or inquiries he could make, led to the slightest

elucidation of the fact. At length, however, a clue to the mystery was

obtained. It was gradually unwarped, and a train of circumstances

finally unfolded the dreadful tale. In disclosing this tale to the

reader, however, we have no occasion whatever to go through the tedious

and digressive process by which M'Lauchlane ultimately arrived at the

history of his unfortunate son's fate. Ours is a much simpler and much

easier task. It is merely to place the facts in their order, divested of

all extraneous matter; and this will be best done by our retrogressing a

little, and resuming the history of the unhappy boy's proceedings after

leaving his mother, at the point where we left it.

On the evening of the second day after his departure, the lad arrived at

Stirling, and had thus accomplished about half his journey. On reaching

this town, where he intended remaining for the night, young M'Lauchlane

repaired to a certain public-house, which he knew, by report, to be much

frequented by his countrymen, when going to and from the Highlands and

the low country. This house was usually crowded with guests; but it

happened that it contained but one on the night of his arrival. The

solitary stranger was an Irishman, on his way to Edinburgh, as he said,

to look for employment. Between young M'Lauchlane and this person--they

being the only two guests in the house--a familiar footing was soon

established, chiefly through the advances of the latter, who affected a

sudden and strong liking for his young companion, whom he insisted on

treating with some liquor. In the morning, they breakfasted together,

and, immediately after, set out together for Edinburgh--M'Lauchlane

delighted with the kindness and rattling off-hand glee of his companion,

who seemed, to his unsuspicious and unsophisticated nature, one of the

best and merriest fellows he had ever met with. In place, however, of

showing an anxiety to prosecute the journey with the expedition natural

to those seeking a distant destination, M'Lauchlane's companion seemed

bent on living by the way. Every mile, and often within shorter

distances, he insisted on his young friend's taking some refreshment

with him. He would, in truth, scarcely pass a single public-house on the

road; but he paid, in every instance, for the entertainment to which he

invited his companion. Two consequences resulted from this manner of

proceeding. These were--young M'Lauchlane's getting, for the first time

in his life, somewhat intoxicated; and the expiry of the day, before

they had completed their journey that comprehended the distance between

Stirling and Edinburgh. The shades of evening were thus just beginning

to gather, as the travellers reached a small village about six or seven

miles from Edinburgh; and it had become pretty dark by the time they had

got midway between the two places just named. At this particular

locality, young M'Lauchlane and his companion passed a well-dressed,

respectable-looking, elderly man, on the road, who was going in the same

direction with themselves. On having gone beyond him, about the distance

of a hundred yards or so, the Irishman suddenly stopped, and addressing

his young friend, said--

"I owe that old rascal that we passed just now, a grudge, and have a

good mind to go back and give him a taste of this twig, by way of

recompense"--shaking a stout cudgel that he carried in his hand. "Will

you lend me a hand?"

Stupefied, or rather, perhaps, distracted with the drink which he had

swallowed, the poor, unreflecting boy at once agreed to assist his

friend in revenging the injuries of which he complained. What these

were, or when, where, or how they had taken place, he never thought of

inquiring. It was enough for him that his companion had been injured,

and enough also for him was the assertion of the latter that he had been

so, and that the old man they had just passed was the inflictor of this

injury.

In a minute after, the old man, whom they had now approached, was

knocked down by the bludgeon of the Irishman--young M'Lauchlane standing

close by. On his falling--

"Tip his watch there," said the former, in a hurried whisper to his

companion, at the same time nudging him with his elbow; "and feel if the

old fellow has any clink in his pockets. Out with it if he has. He owes

me ten times more than he has about him, let that be what it may."

Without a moment's thought or hesitation, the unthinking boy, doing as

he was desired, flung himself on the prostrate old man, seized his watch

chain, and had just dragged it from its pocket, when he was seized by

the collar from behind. On turning round, he found himself in the

custody of two men, who had come up accidentally, unheard and

unobserved, at least by him; but not by his companion, who, aware of

their approach, had, without giving the unfortunate lad warning, darted

through a hedge, and disappeared. It was in vain that the unhappy youth,

on perceiving the dreadful predicament in which he stood, urged the

extenuating facts of the case to his captors. All the circumstances of a

highway robbery, aggravated by personal violence, were too apparent, and

too clearly referable to M'Lauchlane as the perpetrator, to allow of

anything he might assert to the contrary being for an instant believed.

On the recovery of the old man (whose face was streaming with blood)

from the temporary stupefaction which the blow he had been struck had

caused, M'Lauchlane was conveyed a prisoner to Edinburgh, handed over to

the police, and eventually thrown into jail on a capital charge.

We may here pause a moment to remark that, at the period of our tale,

the penal code of this country was enforced, with the most unrelenting

ferocity, against all offenders who came within the reach of its

sanguinary enactments. Mercy was then unknown in the dispensation of the

criminal laws, which, written in blood, were executed to the letter,

without regard to any of those considerations which are now permitted to

have their influence on the side of clemency. The ultimate fate of the

poor Highland boy may be anticipated; and this the more certainly, that

his seducer was never taken, or even heard of; so that no chance was

left him of the facts of his unhappy case being ascertained.

Shortly after being committed to prison, he was capitally indicted to

stand trial before the court, which happened to be held in Edinburgh

about six weeks after his apprehension; and, on the evidence of the old

man and the two persons who had assisted in his capture, he was

convicted of highway robbery, condemned to death, and actually executed

at the usual place of execution; neither the boy's extreme youth, nor

the extenuating circumstances connected with his case (which, indeed,

the Court was not bound to believe, seeing there was only his own bare

unsupported assertion of the facts), having the slightest effect on his

judges, who, partaking at once of the spirit of the times and of the

laws, were sternly rigorous in the execution of what they conceived to

be their duty--seeing no safety for society but in a frequent and

unsparing use of the gibbet.

We have now to explain the most extraordinary part of this piteous

case--and that is, how it was that the poor boy's parents knew nothing

of his miserable fate till it was discovered by the inquiry of which we

shall shortly speak. In the first place, his father took it for granted

that he was at home with his mother, and his mother believed that he was

with his father, and thus his absence was known to neither; and,

therefore, no unusual interest regarding him was excited. During his

confinement, and at all his precognitions, the infatuated boy steadily

refused--though for what reason we know not--to give up his name, or to

give any account of himself whatever. He would neither tell where he

came from, where or to whom he was going, nor what nor who were his

parents; and in this resolution he remained to the last; and, as no one

knew him, he was thus finally executed, without any single particular

being known regarding him, excepting that for which he suffered. Neither

could he be prevailed upon to make known his situation to any of his

friends. In short, he seemed to have determined to prevent his fate from

ever being associated with his identity.

What his motives were for this extraordinary conduct--whether it arose

from a fear of disgracing his family, or from tenderness to the feelings

of his parents--we cannot tell, nor will we trouble the reader with

conjectures which he can make as well for himself. We content ourselves

with relating the facts of the melancholy case, as they actually and

truly occurred.

It was by an inquiry at the police-office of Edinburgh, whither he had

gone, as a last expedient, to endeavour to find some trace of his son,

that M'Lauchlane obtained the intelligence that led to the discovery of

his unhappy fate. He had gone to the office, however, without the most

remote idea that he should there learn anything of his boy as a violator

of the laws, but merely as a repository of general intelligence on such

subjects as that in which he was at the moment interested. Having

stated his errand to two officers whom he found there, they asked him to

describe the boy. This he did; when the men looked significantly at each

other. Poor M'Lauchlane observed the look; and he felt his heart failing

him, as he imagined, and too truly, that he saw in it something ominous.

"Do you know anything of my boy?" he said, looking piteously at the

officers.

They made no reply, but seemed a good deal discomposed. They felt for

the unfortunate father--having little or no doubt, from the personal

description, and other particulars he gave of the boy, that it was he

who had been executed for the robbery on the Stirling road.

"Tell me, for God's sake, if you know anything of my son," said the poor

father, imploringly, after waiting some time in vain for an answer to

his first inquiry of a similar kind.

The men would have still evaded a reply, and were, indeed, both edging

out of the apartment, to avoid being further pressed on the subject,

when M'Lauchlane seized one of them by the arm, and besought him not to

leave him, without giving him what information he possessed on the

subject of his inquiry. "Has any accident happened him?" said the

miserable father. "Is he dead? Tell me, for Heaven's sake, tell me the

worst at once. I can bear it. If he is dead, I say, God's will be done.

Is it so or not, my friend?" again said M'Lauchlane, with a look of

wretchedness that the man could not resist.

"I am afraid he is," was the reply.

"Still, I say God's will be done," said M'Lauchlane, endeavouring to

display a composure he was far, very far from feeling. He next inquired

into the time and manner of his death. On being informed, the unhappy

man instantly sank down on the floor in a state of insensibility. He had

little dreamt of such a horrible catastrophe; and, however resigned he

might have been to his boy's having met with a natural death, his

fortitude was unequal to the dreadful trial it was now called on to

sustain. On coming again to himself, the unfortunate man left the office

without exchanging a word with any one, and returned to his own house.

When he entered, his wife, as was her usual practice, eagerly inquired

if he had yet heard any tidings of their son; but she soon saw that she

had no occasion whatever to put the question. The haggard countenance of

her husband--a countenance in which the utmost depth of human misery was

strongly depicted--assured her at once that tidings had been heard of

the boy, and that these were of the most dismal kind.

"He's dead, then," she screamed out, on looking on the wo-begone, or

rather horror-stricken face of her husband--"my boy is gone." And she

flung herself on the floor in a paroxysm of grief and despair.

To his wife's exclamations, M'Lauchlane made no reply, but threw himself

on a bed, and buried his head beneath the clothes. But this covering did

not conceal the dreadful writhings of the crushed spirit beneath. The

bedclothes heaved with the violent emotions that shook the powerful

frame of the miserable sufferer. From that bed M'Lauchlane never again

rose. He never, however, told his wife of the unhappy death her son had

died; steadily and even sternly resisting all the importunities on that

appalling subject; and whether she ever learned it, we are not aware.

MAJOR WEIR'S COACH.

A LEGEND OF EDINBURGH.[7]

[Footnote 7: A legend, similar to that here given, was current in

Glasgow a number of years ago, and for ages before. The hero's name was

Bob Dragon, whose income, when alive, was said to have been one guinea a

minute. His coachman and horses were said, as those of the major, to

want the heads. The most curious trait of the Glasgow goblin horses, was

that they went down to the river to drink, although they had no heads.

The superstitions of most European countries have a similar origin: the

Germans have their spectre huntsman; the coaches and horses of Major

Weir and Bob Dragon are of the same character. The antiquary will find

the trial of Major Weir in Pitcairn's "Criminal Trials;" and the lover

of such stories may consult "Satan's Invisible World Discovered."--ED.]

The time of our story was September, early in the seventies of the last

century, or it might be the end of the sixties--it matters not much as

to the year--but it was in the month of September, when parties and

politics had set the freemen and burgesses of the royal burghs by the

ears--when feasting and caballing formed almost their whole employment.

The exaltation of themselves or party friends to the civic honours

engrossed their whole attention, and neither money nor time was

grudgingly bestowed to obtain their objects. The embellishment and

improvement of the city of Edinburgh were keenly urged and carried on by

one party, at the head of which was Provost Drummond. He was keenly

opposed by another, which, though fewer in number, and not so well

organized, was not to be despised; for it only wanted a leader of nerve

and tact to stop or utterly undo all that had been done, and keep the

city, as it had been for more than a century, in a position of stately

decay. The wild project of building a bridge over the North Loch was

keenly contested; and ruin and bankruptcy were foretold to the good

town, if the provost and his party were not put out of the council

before it was begun to be carried into execution.

The heavens were illuminated by a glorious harvest moon, far in her

southings; the High Street was deep in shade, like a long dark avenue;

the dim oil lamps, perched high upon their wooden posts, few and far

between, gleamed in the darkness like glow-worms--as two portly figures

were seen in earnest discourse, walking, not with steady step, up the

High Street.

"By my troth, deacon!" said one of them, "I fear Luckie Bell has had too

much of our company this night. I had no idea it was so late. There is

the eighth chime of St. Giles': what hour will strike?"

"Deil may care for me, Treasurer Kerr!" hiccuped the deacon.

"Preserve me, deacon!" replied the treasurer, "it has struck twelve!

What shall I say to the wife? It's to-morrow, deacon! it's to-morrow!"

"Whisht, man, whisht! and no speak with such a melancholy voice," said

the other. "Are you afraid of Kate? What have we to do with to-morrow?

It is a day we shall never see, were we to live as long as Methusalem;

for, auld as he was, he never saw 'to-morrow.' It's always to come, with

its cares or joy." And the deacon stood and laughed aloud at his

conceit. "Let to-morrow care for itself, Tom, say I. What can Kate say

to you? What the deil need you care? Have we not had a happy evening?

Have we not been well employed?" And they again moved on towards the

Castlehill, where the deacon resided.

Thomas Kerr was treasurer of the incorporation, and hoped at this

election to succeed his present companion, whose influence in the

incorporation was great, and to secure which he was, for the time, his

humble servant, and assiduous in his attentions to him--so much so,

that, although his own domicile was in St. Mary's Wynd, at the other

extremity of the High Street, his ambition had overcome his fears of his

better half, and, still ascending the long street, he resolved to

accompany the deacon home; not, however, without some strong misgivings

as to what he might encounter at his return. Both were in that happy

state of excitement when cares and fears press lightly on the human

mind; but the deacon, who had presided at the meeting, and spoken a good

deal, was much more overcome than his treasurer; and the liquor had made

him loquacious.

"Tom, man," again said the deacon, "you walk by my side as douce as if

you were afraid to meet Major Weir in his coach on your way down the

wynd to Kate. Be cheerful man, as I am. Tell her she will be deaconess

in a fortnight, and that will quiet her clatter, or I know not what will

please her; they are all fond of honours. We have done good work this

night--secured two votes against Drummond; other three would graze him.

Pluck up your spirit, Tom, and be active; if we fail, the whole town

will be turned upside down--confound him, and his wild projects, of what

he calls improvements! The deil be in me, if I can help thinking--and it

sticks in my gizzard yet--that he was at the bottom of the pulling down

of my outside stair, by these drunken fellows of masons; the more by

token that, when, after much trouble, I discovered them, and had them

all safe in the guardhouse, he took a small bail, and only fined them

two shillings a-piece, when it caused me an expense of ten good pounds

to repair the mischief they had done; and, more than that, I was forced

to erect it inside the walls; for they would not allow me to put it as

it was, or grant me a Dean of Guild warrant on any other terms. They

said it cumbered the foot-pavement, although, as you know, it had stood

for fifty years. From that day to this I have been his firm opponent in

and out of the council. Tom, are ye asleep? Where are your eyes? What

high new wall is this? See, see, man!"

"This beats all he has done yet!" said the treasurer; "a high white wall

across the High Street, and neither slap nor style that I can see!

Wonderful, wonderful! A strange man that provost!"

"He has done it to vex me, since I came down to Luckie Bell's," replied

the deacon. "It was not there in the early part of the evening. He must

have had a hundred masons at it. But I'll make him repent this frolic

to-morrow in the council, or my name is not Deacon Dickson!"

"What can he mean by it, deacon?" rejoined the other. "I see no purpose

it can serve, for my part."

"But it does serve a purpose," hiccuped the deacon; "It will prevent me

from getting home. It is done through malice against me, for the efforts

I am making to get him and his party out of the council."

During the latter part of this discourse, they had walked, or rather

staggered, from side to side of the street. Between the pillars that,

before the great fires in Edinburgh, formed the base of the high

tenement standing there, and St. Giles' Church, being the entrance into

the Parliament Square, and between St. Giles' and the Exchange

buildings, the full moon threw a stream of light, filling both the

openings, and leaving all above and below involved in deep shade. It was

the moon's rays thus thrown upon the ground, and reaching up to the

second windows of the houses, that formed the wall which the two

officials observed.

"Deil tak me," ejaculated the deacon, "but this is a fine trick to play

upon the deacon of an incorporation in his own town! Were it not for

exposing myself at this untimeous hour, I would raise the town, and pull

it down at the head of the people. Faith, Tom, I will do it!" And he was

on the point of shouting aloud at the pitch of his voice, when the more

prudent treasurer put his hand upon the mouth of the enraged deacon.

"For mercy's sake, be quiet!" said he. "What are you going to be about?

Is this a time of night for a member of council to make a riot, and

expose himself in the High Street? To-morrow will be time enough to pull

it down by force, if you cannot get a vote of the council to authorise

it. No doubt it is a round-about way and a sair climb; but just, like a

wise and prudent man, as you always are, put up with it for one night,

and come along down the Fishmarket Close, up the Cowgate, and climb the

West Bow, to the deaconess, who, I have no doubt, is weary waiting on

you."

"Faith, Tom, I am in part persuaded you advise well for once," replied

the deacon; "so I will act upon it, although I am your deacon, and all

advice ought to come from me."

And away they trudged. Both were corpulent men; but the deacon, having

been several times in the council, was by much the heavier of the two.

Down they went by the Fishmarket Close, and up the Cowgate, the deacon,

sulky and silent, meditating all the way vengeance against the provost;

but, in ascending the steep and winding Bow, his patience entirely left

him; he stopped, more than once, to wipe the perspiration from his brow,

recover his breath, and mutter curses on the head of the official. At

length, they reached the deacon's home, where his patient spouse waited

his arrival. Without uttering a word, he threw himself upon a chair,

placing his hat and wig upon a table. It was some minutes before he

recovered his breath sufficiently to answer the questions of his anxious

wife, or give vent to the anger that was consuming him. At length, to

the fifty-times put questions of--

"Deacon, what has vexed you so sorely? what has happened to keep you so

late?" he broke forth--

"What vexes me? what has kept me so late? You may, with good reason,

inquire that, woman. Our pretty provost is the sole cause. You may be

thankful that you have seen my face this night." And he commenced and

gave an exaggerated account of the immense wall that the provost had

caused to be built, from the Crames to the Royal Exchange, reaching as

high as the third story of the houses; and the great length of time he

had been detained in examining it, to discover a way to get over or

through it--all which the simple deaconess believed, and heartily joined

her husband in abusing the provost.

"Had a wall been built across the Castlehill," she said, "when the

highlandmen were in the town, and the cannon balls flying down the

street, I could have known the use of it; but to build a wall between

the Crames and the Royal Exchange, to keep the Lawnmarket and Castlehill

people from kirk and market--surely the man's mad!"

The treasurer had been for some time gone ere the worthy couple retired

to rest, big with the events that were to be transacted on the morrow,

for the downfall of the innovating provost. The morning was still grey,

the sun was not above the horizon, when the deaconess, as was her wont,

arose to begin her household duties; but, anxious to communicate the

strange conduct of the provost, in raising the wall of partition in the

city, she seized her water stoups, and hurried to the public well at the

Bowhead, to replenish them, and ease her overcharged mind of the mighty

circumstance. Early as the hour was, many of the wives of the good

citizens were already there, seated on their water stoups, and awaiting

their turn to be supplied--their shrill voices mixing with those of the

more sonorous tones of the highland water-carriers, and rising in

violent contention on the stillness of the morning, like the confusion

of Babel.

The sensation caused by the relation of the deaconess of her husband's

adventure of the preceding evening, was nothing impaired by the story

being related at second-hand. Arms were raised in astonishment as she

proceeded with her marvellous tale of the high wall built in so short a

space by the provost. After some time spent in fruitless debate, it was

agreed that they should go down in a body and examine this bold

encroachment upon the citizens--and away they went, with the indignant

deaconess at their head.

For some hundred feet down the Lawnmarket, the buildings of the jail and

Luckenbooths hid that part of the street from the phalanx of Amazons;

but, intent to reconnoitre where the wall of offence was said to stand,

they reached the Luckenbooths, and a shout of laughter and derision

burst from the band. The deaconess stood petrified, the image of shame

and anger. No wall was there--everything stood as it had done for years!

"Lucky Dickson," cried one, "ye hae gien us a gowk's errand. I trow the

deacon has been fu' yestreen. Where is the fearfu wa' ye spak o', that

he neither could get through nor owre? Ha! ha! ha!"

"Did ye really believe what he told you, Mrs. Dickson?" screamed

another. "It was a silly excuse for being owre late with his cronies. He

surely thinks you a silly woman to believe such tales. Were my husband

to serve me so, I would let him hear of it on the deafest side of his

head."

"You need not doubt but that he shall hear of it," responded the

deaconess; "and that before long. But, dear me, there must have been

some witchcraft played off upon him and the treasurer last night; for,

as true as death, they baith said they saw it with their een. There's

been glamour in it. I fear Major Weir is playing more tricks in the town

than riding his coach. There was no cause to tell me a lie as an excuse,

for I am always happy to see him come hame safe at ony hour."

By this time they had returned to the well, where they resumed their

water vessels and hurried home, some to report the strange adventure the

deacon had encountered the night before, and the deaconess to tell her

better half of the delusion he had been under. Before breakfast time,

the story was in every one's mouth, from the Castle to the Abbey-gate,

and as far as the town extended. On a clear moonlight night, for many

years afterwards, Deacon Dickson's dike was pointed out by the

inhabitants; and at jovial parties we have heard it said--"Sit still a

little longer; we are all sober enough to get over Deacon Dickson's

wall."

The treasurer, who was not so muddled by the effect of the evening's

entertainment as the deacon, yet still impressed by the idea of the

wall, proceeded homewards by the same route whereby he had reached the

deacon's, but now much refreshed by the walk, and night, or rather

morning air--for it was nearly one o'clock. As he approached the

Bow-foot Well, the sobbing of a female broke the stillness of the night:

he paused for a few minutes, and, looking towards the spot from whence

the sound came, urged by humanity, he drew more near, till he perceived

an aged female almost concealed by the dark shade of the well, against

which she leaned to support herself. As soon as he saw her distinctly,

with an emotion of grief and surprise he exclaimed--

"Mrs. Horner!--what has happened? Why are you here at this untimeous

hour?--or what is the cause of your grief?"

"Thomas Kerr," replied she, "I am a poor unfortunate woman, whom God

alone can help. Pass on, and leave me to my misery." And she buried her

face in her hands, while the large drops of anguish welled through her

withered fingers.

"I cannot leave you here in such a state," said he again. "Come home,

my good woman, and I shall accompany you."

"I have no home," was her sad reply. "Alas! I have no home but the

grave. I am a poor, silly, undone woman, in my old age. Comfortable, and

even rich as I was, I am now destitute. I have neither house nor hall to

cover my grey hairs. Oh, if I were only dead and buried out of this

sinful world, to hide the shame of my own child. An hour is scarce

passed since I thought my heart would burst in my bosom before I would

be enabled to reach the Greyfriars' church-yard, to lay my head upon

Willie Horner's grave, and the graves of my innocent babes that sleep in

peace by his side. I feared my strength would fail; for all I wish is to

die there. I did reach the object of my wish, and laid myself upon the

cold turf, and prayed for death to join as he had separated us; but my

heart refused to break, and tears that were denied me before, began to

stream from my eyes. The fear of unearthly sights came strong upon me,

stronger even than my grief. Strange moanings and sounds came on the

faint night wind, from Bloody Mackenzie's tomb, and the bright moonlight

made the tombstones look like unearthly things. I rose and fled. I will

tarry here, and die in sight of the gallows stone; for it was here my

only brother fell, killed by a shot from cruel Porteous' gun; and on the

fatal tree which that stone is meant to support, my grandfather

cheerfully gave his testimony for the covenanted rights of a persecuted

kirk. Leave me, Thomas Kerr--leave me to my destiny. I can die here with

pleasure; and it is time I were dead. To whom can a mother look for

comfort or pity, when her own son has turned her out upon a cold world?

I am as Rachel mourning for her children. I will not be comforted." And

the mourner wrapped her mantle round her head with the energy of

despair, and, bending it upon the well, burst anew into an agony of sobs

and tears.

The treasurer felt himself in an awkward situation. He paused, and began

to revolve in his mind what was best to be done at the moment--whether

to obey the widow or the dictates of humanity. His better feeling

prompted him to stay and do all in his power for the mourner, whom he

had known in happier times; but his caution and avarice, backed by the

dread of his spouse, urged him, with a force he felt every moment less

able to resist, to leave her and hurry home. As he stood irresolute, the

voice of the stern monitor sounded in the auricles of his heart like the

knell of doom, and roused into fearful energy feelings he had long

treated lightly, or striven to suppress when they rose upon him with

greater force. He ran like a guilty criminal from the spot. The wailings

of the crushed and pitiable object he had left, had given them a force

he had never before known, and he urged his way down the Cowgate head as

if he wished to fly from himself--the traces of the evening's enjoyments

having fled, and their place being supplied by the pangs of an awakened

conscience. There was, indeed, too much cause for his agitation, often

hinted at by his acquaintances, but in its full extent only known in his

own family--a striking similarity between the situation of his own

mother and that of Widow Horner. The cases of the two aged individuals

agreed in all points, save that he had not yet turned her out of doors;

and conscience told him that even that result had been prevented, more

by the patient endurance of his worthy parent herself, than any kindly

feeling on the part of her son.

The father of the treasurer, and the husband of Widow Horner, had both

been industrious, and, for their rank in life, wealthy burgesses of the

city. At their death, they had left their widows with an only child to

succeed them and be a comfort to their mothers, who had struggled hard

to retain and add to the wealth, until their sons were of age to

succeed and manage it for themselves. Their sole and rich reward, as

they anticipated, would be the pleasure of witnessing the prosperity of

their sons. That they would be ungrateful, was an idea so repugnant to

their maternal feelings, that, for a moment, it was never harboured in

their bosoms. A cruel reality was fated to falsify their anticipations.

The treasurer had, before he was twenty-five years of age, married a

female, whom his fond mother had thought unworthy of her son; and to

prevent the marriage she had certainly done all that lay in her power.

Her endeavours and remonstrances had only served to hasten the event she

wished so much to retard and hinder from taking place; the consequence

was, that the hated alliance was made several weeks before she was made

aware of it, by the kindness of a gossiping neighbour or two. Much as

she felt, and sore as her heart was wrung, she, like a prudent woman,

shed her tears of bitter anguish at the want of filial regard in her

son, in secret. She at once resolved to pardon this act of ingratitude,

and, for her son's sake, to receive her unwelcome daughter-in-law with

all the kindness she could assume on the trying occasion. Not so her

daughter-in-law, who was of an overbearing, subtile, and vindictive turn

of mind. The mother of her husband had wounded her pride; she resolved

never to forget or forgive; and, before she had crossed her threshold, a

deep revenge was vowed against her, as soon as it was in her power to

execute it. The first meeting was embarrassing on both sides; each had

feelings to contend against and disguise; yet it passed off well to

outward appearance--the widow from love to her son, striving to love his

wife--the latter, again, with feigned smiles and meekness, affecting to

gain her mother-in-law's esteem; and so well did she act her part, that,

before many days after their first interview had passed, Thomas was

requested to bring his wife into the house, to reside in the family,

and to save the expense of a separate establishment. From that hour the

house of Widow Kerr began to cease to be her own, for the first few

months almost imperceptibly. Thomas, although a spoiled child, was not

naturally of an unfeeling disposition, but selfish and capricious from

over-indulgence. Amidst all his faults, there was still a love and

esteem of his mother, which his wife, seeing it would be dangerous

openly to attack it, had resolved to undermine, and therefore laid her

wicked schemes accordingly. In the presence of her husband, she was, for

a time, all smiles and affability; but, in his absence, she said and did

a thousand little nameless things, to tease and irritate the good old

dame. This produced complaints to her son, who, when he spoke to his

wife of them, was only answered by her tears and lamentations, for the

misery she suffered in being the object of his mother's dislike. To

himself she referred, if she did not do all in her power to please his

mother. These scenes had become of almost daily occurrence, and were so

artfully managed, that the mother had the appearance of being in the

fault. Gradually, the son's affection became deadened towards his

parent; she had ceased to complain, and now suffered in silence. For her

there was no redress--for, in a fit of fondness, she had made over to

her son all she possessed in the world. She was thus in his power; yet

her heart revolted at exposing his cruelty. The revenge of the wife was

not complete, even after the spirit of the victim was completely

crushed, and she had ceased to complain. Often the malignant woman would

affect lowness of spirits, and even tears, refusing to tell the cause of

her grief until urged by endearments, and obtaining an assurance that he

would not regard her folly in yielding to her feelings; but she could

not help it--were it not for her love to him, she knew not in what she

had ever offended his mother, save in preferring him to every other

lover who had sought her hand. Thus, partly by artifice, but more by her

imperious turn of mind, which she had for years ceased to conceal, the

treasurer was completely subdued to her dictation; and, by a just

retribution, he was punished for his want of filial affection, for he

was as much the sufferer from her temper as his mother was the victim of

her malice. With a crushed heart, the old woman ate her morsel in the

kitchen, moistened by her tears. Even her grandchildren were taught to

insult and wound her feelings. So short-sighted is human nature, the

parents did not perceive that by this proceeding they were laying rods

in pickle for themselves, which, in due time, would be brought in use,

when the recollection of their own conduct would give tenfold poignancy

to every blow.

On the occasion to which we have alluded, the situation and wailings of

Widow Horner still rung in the ears of the treasurer. All his acts of

unkindness to his parent passed before him like a hideous phantasmagoria

as he hurried down the Cowgate. He even became afraid of himself, as

scene after scene arose to his awakened conscience--all the misery and

indignities that had been heaped upon his parent by his termagant wife,

he himself either looking on with indifference, or supporting his spouse

in her cruelty. Goaded by remorse, he still hurried on. The celerity of

his movements seemed to relieve him. He had formed no fixed resolution

as to how he was to act upon his arrival at home. A dreamy idea floated

in his tortured mind that he had some fearful act to perform to ease it,

and do justice to his parent; yet, as often as he came to the resolution

to dare every consequence, his courage would again quail at the thought

of encountering one who had, in all contentions, ever been the victor,

and riveted her chains the more closely around him on every attempt he

had made to break them. In this pitiable state, he had got as far

towards home as the foot of the College Wynd, when the sound of a

carriage approaching rapidly from the east roused him and put all other

thoughts to flight. With a start of horror and alarm, he groaned--"The

Lord have mercy upon me! The Major's coach! If I see it, my days are

numbered." And, with an effort resembling the energy of despair, he

rushed into a stair foot, and, placing both his hands upon his face to

shut out from his sight the fearful object, supported himself by leaning

upon the wall. As the sound increased, so did the treasurer's fears; but

what words can express his agony when it drew up at the foot of the very

stair in which he stood, and a sepulchral voice issued from it--

"Is he here?"

"Just come," was the reply in a similar tone.

"Then all's right."

"O God! have mercy on my sinful soul!" screamed the treasurer, as he

sank senseless out of the foot of the stair upon the street.

How long he remained in this state, or what passed in the interval, he

could give no account. When he awoke to consciousness, he found himself

seated in a carriage jolting along at a great speed, supported on each

side by what appeared to him headless trunks; for the bright moonlight

shone in at the carriage window, and exhibited two heads detached from

their bodies dangling from the top. The glance was momentary. Uttering a

deep groan, he shut his eyes to avoid the fearful sight. He would have

spoken; but his palsied tongue refused to move, even to implore for

mercy. Wringing his hands in despair, he would have sunk to the bottom

of the coach upon his knees, but was restrained by the two figures. He

felt their grasp upon his arms, firm as one of his own vices. The same

fearful voice he had first heard fell again on his ear--"Sit still.

Utter no cry. Make a clean breast, as you hope for mercy at the major's

tribunal. He knows you well; but wishes to test your truth. Proceed!"

With a memory that called up every deed he had ever done, and sunk to

nothingness any of the actions he had at one time thought good, he

seemed as if he now stood before his Creator. All his days on earth

appeared to have been one long black scene of sin and neglected duties.

His head sunk upon his breast, and the tears of repentance moistened his

bosom. When he had finished his minute confession, a pause ensued of a

few minutes. The moon, now far in the west, was sinking behind a dense

mass of clouds. The wind began to blow fitfully, with a melancholy

sound, along the few objects that interrupted its way, and around the

fearful conveyance in which he sat, more dead than alive. The measured

tramp of the horses, and rattling of the carriage, fell on his ear like

the knell of death. He felt a load at his heart, as if the blood refused

to leave it and perform its functions. Human nature could not have

sustained itself under such circumstances much longer. The carriage

stopped; the door opened with violence; his breathing became like a

quick succession of sobs; his ears whizzed, almost producing deafness.

Still he was fearfully awake to every sensation; a painful vitality

seemed to endow every nerve with tenfold its wonted activity; all were

in action at the moment; his whole frame tingled; and the muscles seemed

to quiver on his bones. The same hollow voice broke the silence.

"Thomas Kerr, your sincerity and contrition has delivered you from my

power this once. Beware of a relapse. Go, do the duty of a son to your

worthy parent. You have been a worse man than ever I was on earth. I

have my parent's blessing with me in the midst of my sufferings; and

there is a soothing in it which the wretched can alone feel."

Quick as thought he was lifted from the coach and seated upon the

ground. With the speed of a whirlwind, as it appeared to him, the

carriage disappeared, and the sound died away. For some time he sat

bewildered, as if he had fallen from the clouds. Gradually he began to

breathe more freely, and felt as if a fearful night-mare had just passed

away. Slowly the events of the night rose in regular succession. The

forlorn and desolate widow; the hideous spectres in the coach, that,

without heads, spake and moved with such energy--the whole now passed

before him so vividly that he shuddered. At first he hoped all had been

a fearful dream; but the cold, damp ground on which he sat banished the

fond idea. He felt, in all its force, that he was now wide awake, as he

groped with his hands and touched the damp grass beneath him. All around

was enveloped in impenetrable darkness. Not one star shone in the murky

sky. How much of the night had passed, or where he at present was, he

had no means of ascertaining. The first use he made of his restored

faculties was to rise upon his knees, and pour out his soul to God,

imploring pardon and protection in this hour of suffering. He rose with

a heart much lightened, and felt his energies restored. Stumbling

onwards, he proceeded, he knew not whither, until, bruised by falls and

faint from exhaustion, he again seated himself upon a stone, to wait

patiently the approach of dawn. Thus, melancholy and pensive, he sat,

eager to catch the faintest sound; but all was silent as the grave, save

the faint rustling of the long grass, waving around him in the night

breeze, that was chilling his vitals, as it, in fitful gusts, swept past

him. The hope of surviving the night had almost forsaken him, when the

distant tramp of a horse fell on his longing ears. Then the cheerful

sound of a popular air, whistled to cheer the darkness, gladdened his

heart. In an ecstasy of pleasure, he sprung to his feet. The rolling of

wheels over the rugged road, was soon added to the cheering sounds. With

caution he approached them over hedge and ditch, until, dark as it was,

he could discern the object of his search almost before him--a carrier's

cart, with the driver seated upon the top, whistling and cracking his

whip to the time.

"Stop friend, for mercy's sake, and take me up beside you."

"Na, na," replied the carrier; "I will do no such foolish action. Hap,

Bassie! hap!" And, smacking his whip, the horse increased its speed.

"Come not near my cart, or I will make Caesar tear you in pieces. Look to

him, Caesar!" And the snarling of a dog gave fearful warning to the poor

treasurer to keep at a distance; but, rendered desperate by his

situation, he continued to follow, calling out--

"Stop, if you are a Christian; for mercy's sake, stop and hear me. I am

a poor lost creature, sick and unable to harm, but rich enough to reward

you, if you will save my life. I am no robber, but a decent burgess and

freeman of Edinburgh; and where I am at present I cannot tell."

"Woo, Bassie! woo!" responded the carrier. "Silence, Caesar! Preserve us

from all evil! Amen! Sure you cannot be Thomas Kerr, whose shop is in

Saint Mary's Wynd?"

"The very same; but who are you that know my voice?"

"Who should I be," rejoined he, "but Watty Clinkscales, the

North-Berwick carrier, on my way to the town; for you may know well

enough that Wednesday morning is my time to be in Edinburgh; but come up

beside me, man, and do not stand longer there. If you have lost

yourself, as you say, I will with pleasure give you a ride home this

dark morning; but tell me how, in all the world, came you to be standing

at the Figgate Whins, instead of being in your warm bed? I am thinking,

friend Kerr, you have been at a corporation supper last night."

While the carrier was speaking, the treasurer mounted the cart, and took

his seat beside him. They moved slowly on. To all the questions of the

carrier, evasive answers were returned; the treasurer felt no desire to

be communicative. As they reached the Watergate, the first rays of

morning shone upon Arthur's Seat and the Calton Hill. Before they

entered, the treasurer dismounted, having first rewarded his conveyer to

the town, and proceeded to his home by the south back of the Canongate,

faint and unwell. When he reached his own door, he was nearly exhausted.

It was opened to him by his anxious mother, who had watched for him

through the whole night. Alarmed by his haggard and sickly appearance,

timidly she inquired what had happened to him, to cause such an

alteration in his looks in so short a time. The tears started into his

eyes as he looked at her venerable form, degraded by her attire. He took

her hand in both his, and, pressing it to his lips, faltered out--

"Oh, my mother! can you pardon your undutiful son? Only say you will

forgive me."

"Tammy, my bairn," she replied, "what have I to pardon? Is not all my

pleasure in life to see you happy? What signifies what becomes of me,

the few years I have to be on earth? But you are ill, my son--you are

very ill!"

"I am indeed very unwell, both in body and mind," said he. "Say you

pardon me, for the manner in which I have allowed you to be treated

since my marriage; and give me your blessing, lest I die without hearing

you pronounce it."

"Bless you, my Thomas, and all that is yours, my son! with my blessing,

and the blessing of God, which is above all riches! But go to your bed,

my bairn, and do not let me make dispeace in the family."

At this moment his spouse opened the door of the bedroom, and began, in

her usual manner, to rate and abuse him for keeping untimeous hours.

Still holding his mother's hands in his, he commanded her, in a voice he

had never before assumed to her, to be silent. She looked at him in

amazement, as if she had doubted the reality of his presence; and was on

the point of becoming more violent, when his fierce glance, immediately

followed by the sunken, sickly look which one night of suffering had

given him, alarmed her for his safety, and she desisted, anxiously

assisting his mother to undress and put him to bed.

He soon fell into a troubled sleep, from which he awoke in the

afternoon, unrefreshed and feverish. His wife was seated by his bed when

he awoke. Turning his languid eye towards her, he inquired for his

mother. A scene of angry altercation would have ensued; but he was too

ill to reply to the irritating language and reproaches of his spouse.

The anger increased his fever, and delirium came on towards the evening.

A physician was sent for, who at once pronounced his life to be in

extreme danger; and, indeed, for many days it was despaired of.

The horrors of that night were the theme of his discourse, while the

fever raged in his brain. The smallest noise, even the opening of a

door, made him shriek and struggle to escape from those who watched him.

His efforts were accompanied by cries for mercy from Major Weir; his bed

was the coach, and his wife and mother the headless phantoms.

Clinkscales had told the manner and where he had found him, on the

morning he was taken ill. The sensation this excited through the city

became extreme. Deacon Dickson told the hour in which he left his house,

and the language of the sufferer filled up the space until he was met by

the carrier. The nocturnal apparition of the major's carriage had, for

many years, been a nursery tale of Edinburgh. Many firmly believed in

its reality. There were not awanting several who affirmed they had seen

it; and scarce an inhabitant of the Cowgate or St. Mary's Wynd, but

thought they had heard it often before the present occurrence.

That the treasurer had by some means been transported to the Figgate

Whins in the major's coach, a great many firmly believed; for two of the

incorporation on the same night had been alarmed by a coach driving

furiously down the Cowgate; but they could not describe its appearance,

as they had hid themselves until it passed, fearful of seeing the

spectre carriage and its unearthly attendants. It was at least certain

that, of late, many had been aroused out of their sleep by the noise of

a carriage; and, the report gaining ground, the terror of the citizens

became so great that few chose to be upon any of the streets after

twelve at night, unless urged by extreme necessity. This state of

foolish alarm, as the magistrates called it, could not be allowed to

continue within their jurisdiction; and they resolved to investigate the

whole affair. Several were examined privately; but the treasurer was too

ill to be spoken to, even by his friend the deacon. There was a strange

harmony in the statements of several who had really distinctly heard the

sounds of horses' feet, and the rumbling of a carriage, and the ravings

of the unfortunate treasurer. The authorities were completely at a stand

how to proceed. Several shook their heads and looked grave; others

proposed to request the ministers of the city to watch the major's

carriage, and pray it out of the city. But the provost's committee sent

for the captain of the train-bands, and consulted with him: he agreed to

have twelve of the band and six of the town-guard in readiness by twelve

at night, to waylay the cause of annoyance, should it make its

appearance, and unravel the mystery. That there was some unlawful

purpose connected with it, several of the council had little doubt.

These meetings were private, and the proceedings are not on record to

guide us. It was with considerable difficulty the captain could get the

number of his band required for the duty; they chose rather to pay the

fine, believing it to be a real affair of diablerie; for their earliest

recollections were associated with the truth of the major's night

airings. For several nights the watch was strictly kept by many of the

citizens; but in vain. No appearance disturbed the usual stillness of

the night in the city; not even the sound of a carriage was heard. The

whole affair gradually lost its intense interest, and ceased to be the

engrossing theme of conversation. The sceptics triumphed over their

believing acquaintance; and the mysterious occurrence was allowed to

rest.

The election week for deacon of the crafts at length arrived. All was

bustle among the freemen; the rival candidates canvassing and treating,

and their partisans bustling about everywhere. City politics ran high;

but the treasurer, although recovered, was still too weak to take an

active part in the proceedings. Deacon Dickson, on this account,

redoubled his exertions--for the indisposition of his treasurer had

deranged his plans; and it was of great importance, in his eyes, to have

one of his party elected in his place. Had Kerr been able to move about,

to visit and flatter his supporters, his election was next to certain,

so well had the whole affair been managed. Kerr was accordingly dropped

by him, and a successor pitched upon, who could at this eventful period

aid him in his efforts against the candidate of the Drummondites, as the

supporters of the provost were called.

On the Thursday, when the long lists were voted, the deacon carried his

list, and every one of the six were tried men, and hostile to the

innovations of the provost and his party. The deacon was in great

spirits, and told the treasurer, whom he visited as soon as his triumph

was secure, that, if not cut off the list in shortening the leet, his

election was sure. On the list coming down from the council, neither

Kerr nor the person Dickson wished were on the leet; both had been

struck off, and the choice behoved to fall upon one of three, none of

whom had hoped, at this time, to succeed to office. Their joy was so

much the greater, and the election dinner not less substantial.

It was the evening of the election, closely bordering upon the

morning--for all respected the Sabbath-day, and even on this joyous

occasion, would not infringe upon it--that a party of some ten or twelve

were seen to issue from one of the narrow closes in the High Street, two

and two, arm in arm, dressed in the first style of fashion, with bushy

wigs, cocked hats, and gold-headed canes. At their head was, now old

Deacon Dickson, and his successor in office. They were on their way,

accompanying their new deacon home to his residence, near the foot of

St. Mary's Wynd in the Cowgate, and to congratulate the deaconess on her

husband's elevation to the council. None of them were exactly tipsy; but

in that middle state when men do not stand upon niceties, neither are

scared by trifles. The fears of the major's coach were not upon them;

or, if any thought of it came over them, their numbers gave them

confidence. Leaving the High Street, they proceeded down Merlin's Wynd

to the Cowgate. Scarce had the head of the procession emerged from the

dark thoroughfare, when the sound of a carriage, in rapid advance, fell

on their astonished ears. The front stood still, and would have

retreated back into the wynd, but could not; for those behind,

unconscious of the cause of the stoppage, urged on and forced them out

into the street. There was not a moment for reflection, scarce to utter

a cry, before the fearful equipage was full upon them. Retreat was still

impossible; and those in front, by the pressure from behind, becoming

desperate by their situation, the two deacons seized the reins of the

horses, to prevent their being ridden over. In a second, the head of the

coachman (held in his hand!) was launched at Deacon Dickson, with so

true an aim that it felled him to the ground, with the loss of his hat

and wig. Though stunned by the blow, his presence of mind did not

forsake him. Still holding on by the reins, and dragged by the horses,

he called lustily for his companions to cut the traces. The head of the

coachman, in the meantime, had returned to his hand, and been launched

forth, with various effect, on the aggressors. Other heads flew from the

windows on each side, and from the coach-box, in rapid, darting motions.

The cries of the assailants resounded through the stillness of the

night; fear had fled their bosoms; there was scarce one but had received

contusions from the flying heads, and rage urged them on to revenge.

Candles began to appear at the windows, exhibiting faces pale with fear.

Some of the bolder of the male inhabitants, recognising the voice of

some relative or acquaintance in the cries of the assailants, ran to the

street and joined the fray. Dickson, who had never relinquished his

first hold, recovered himself, severely hurt as he was by the feet of

the horses, which were urged on, short as the struggle was, up to the

College Wynd, in spite of the resistance. At the moment the carriage

reached the foot of the wynd, the door on the left burst open, and two

figures leaped out, disappearing instantly, although closely pursued. In

the confusion of the pursuit, the coachman also disappeared. No one

could tell how, or in what manner he had fled, he appeared to fall from

the box among the crowd; and, when several stooped to lift and secure

him, all that remained in their hands was a greatcoat, with basket work

within the shoulders, so contrived as to conceal the head and neck of

the wearer, to which was fastened a stout cord, the other end of which

was attached to an artificial head, entangled in the strife between the

horses and the pole of the coach. Two similar dresses were also found

inside. The coach was heavily laden; but with what, the authorities

never could discover, although envious persons said that several of the

tradesmen's wives in the Cowgate afterwards wore silk gowns that had

never before had one in their family, had better and stronger tea at

their parties, and absolutely abounded in tobacco for many weeks. But

whether these were the spoils of the combat with the infernal coach, or

the natural results of successful industry, was long a matter of debate.

As for the coach and horses, they became the prize of Deacon Dickson and

his friends, never having been claimed by the major. The sensation

created on the following day by the exaggerated reports of the fearful

rencounter and unheard of bravery of the tradesmen, was in proportion to

the occasion. Several of the assailants were reported to have been

killed, and, among the rest, the deacon. For several days, the inn-yard

of the White Hart was crowded to excess to view the carriage and horses.

As for the deacon, no doubt, he was considerably bruised about the legs;

but the glory he had acquired was a medicine far more efficacious to his

hurts than any the faculty could have prescribed. At the first toll of

the bells for church, he was seen descending from the Castle Hill

towards the Tron Church, limping much more, many thought, than there was

occasion for, supported by his battered gold-headed cane on one side,

and holding by the arm of the deaconess on the other. With an affected

modesty, which no general after the most brilliant victory could better

have assumed, he accepted the congratulations he had come out to

receive. When he entered the church, a general whisper ran through it,

and all eyes were upon him, while the minister had not yet entered.

This was the proudest moment of his life. He had achieved, with the

assistance of a few friends, what the train-bands and city-guard had

failed to accomplish; that it was more by accident, and against his will

he had performed the feat, he never once allowed to enter his mind, and

stoutly denied when he heard it hinted at by those who envied him the

glory he had acquired.

As soon as the afternoon's service was over, he proceeded to the

treasurer's house, to congratulate him on his re-election to the

treasurership, and give a full account of his adventure. To his

exaggerated account, Kerr listened with the most intense interest; a

feeling of horror crept over his frame as the deacon dwelt upon the blow

he had received from the coachman's head, and the efficacious manner in

which the two inside phantoms had used theirs, concluding with--

"It was a fearful and unequal strife--devils against mortal men."

"Do you really think they were devils, deacon? Was it really their own

heads they threw about?" said the treasurer.

"I am not clear to say they were devils," replied the other; "but they

fought like devils. Severe blows they gave, as I feel this moment. They

could not be anything canny; for they got out from among our hands like

a flash of light."

The deacon's vanity would have tempted him to say he believed them to be

not of this earth; but the same feeling restrained him. Where there had

been so many actors in the affair, he had as yet had no opportunity of

learning their sentiments; and, above all things, he hated to be in a

minority, or made an object of ridicule. Turning aside the direct

question of the treasurer, he continued--

"Whatever they were, the horses are two as bonny blacks as any

gentleman could wish to put into his carriage. By my troth, I have made

a good adventure of it? I mean to propose, and I have no doubt I shall

carry my motion, that they and the major's coach be sold, and the

proceeds spent in a treat to the incorporation. Make haste, man, and get

better. You are as welcome to a share as if you had been one of those

present; although, indeed, I cannot give you a share of the glory of

putting Major Weir and his devils to the rout--and no small glory it is,

on the word of a deacon, treasurer."

The load that had for many days pressed down the treasurer's spirits

gradually passed off as the deacon proceeded, and a new light shone on

his mind; his countenance brightened up.

"Deacon," he said, "the truth begins to dawn upon me, and I feel a new

man. Confess at once that the whole has been a contrivance of the

smugglers to run their goods, availing themselves of the real major's

coach. It was a bold game, deacon, and, like all unlawful games, a

losing one in the end. Still, it is strange what inducement they could

have had for their cruel conduct to me on that miserable night, or how I

was enabled to survive, or retained my reason. I have been often lost in

fearful misery upon this subject since the fever left me; but you, my

friend, have restored peace to my mind."

And they parted for the evening. The treasurer's recovery was now most

rapid. In a few days, all traces of his illness were nearly obliterated,

and he went about his affairs as formerly. An altered man--all his

wife's influence for evil was gone for ever; calmly and dispassionately

he remonstrated with her; for a few days she struggled hard to retain

her abused power; tears and threatened desertion of his house were

used--but he heard her unmoved, still keeping his stern resolve with a

quietness of manner which her cunning soon perceived it was not in her

power to shake. She ceased to endeavour to shake it. His mother was

restored to her proper station, and all was henceforth peace and

harmony.

Several years had rolled on. The deaconship was, next election, bestowed

upon Treasurer Kerr. He had served with credit, and his business

prospered. The adventure with the major's coach was only talked of as an

event of times long passed, when, one forenoon, an elderly person, in a

seaman's dress, much soiled, entered his workshop, and, addressing him

by name, requested employment. Being very much in want of men at the

time, he at once said he had no objection to employ him, if he was a

good hand.

"I cannot say, I am, now what I once was in this same shop," he replied.

"It is long since I forsook the craft; but, if you are willing to employ

me, I will do my best."

The stranger was at once engaged, and gave satisfaction to his

employer--betraying a knowledge of events that had happened to the

family, and that were only traditionary to his master. His curiosity

became awakened; to gratify which, he took the man home, one evening,

after his day's work was over. For some time after they entered the

house, the stranger became pensive and reserved--his eyes, every

opportunity, wandering to the mother of his master, with a look of

anxious suspense. At length, he arose from his seat, and said, in a

voice tremulous with emotion--

"Mistress! my ever-revered mistress! have you entirely forgot Watty

Brown, the runaway apprentice of your husband?"

"Watty Brown, the yellow-haired laddie," ejaculated she, "I can never

forget. He was always a favourite of mine. You cannot be him; your hair

is grey?"

"My good mistress, old and grey-headed as you see me," said he, "I am

Watty Brown; but much has passed over my once yellow head to bleach it

white as you see. My master here was but an infant in your arms, when I

left Edinburgh. Often have I rocked him in his cradle. After all that

has passed, I am here again, safe. I am sure there is no one present

would bring me into trouble for what is now so long passed."

"How time flies!" said she. "The Porteous mob is in my mind as if it had

happened last week. O Watty! you were always a reckless lad. Sore, sore

you have rued, I do not doubt, that night. Do tell us what has come of

you since?"

"Well, mistress, you recollect there was little love between the

apprentices of Edinburgh and Captain Porteous. All this might have

passed off in smart skirmishes on a king's birthday, or so; but his

brutal behaviour at poor Robinson's execution, and slaughter of the

townsmen, could not be forgiven by lord or tradesman. Well, as all the

land knows, he was condemned, and all were satisfied; for the guilty was

to suffer. But his pardon came; the bloodshedder of the innocent was to

leave the jail as if he had done nothing wrong! Was this to be endured?

Murmurs and threats were in every tradesman's mouth; the feuds of the

apprentices were quelled, for a time; all colours joined in hatred of

the murderer. Yet no plan of operations was adopted. In this combustible

frame of mind, the drums of the city beat to arms. I rushed from this

very house to know the cause, and saw the trades' lads crowding towards

the jail. I inquired what was their intention.

"'To execute righteous judgment!' a strange voice said, in the crowd.

"I returned to the shop; and, taking the forehammer, as the best weapon

I could find, in my haste, with good will joined, and was at the door

amongst the foremost of those who attempted to break it open. Numbers

had torches. Lustily did I apply my hammer to its studded front. Vainly

did I exert myself, until fire was put to it, when it at length gave

way. As I ceased from my efforts, one of the crowd, carrying a torch,

put a guinea into my hand, and said--

"'Well done, my good lad. Take this; you have wrought for it. If you are

like to come to trouble for this night's work, fly to Anstruther, and

you will find a friend.'

"While he spoke, those who had entered the jail were dragging Porteous

down the stairs. My heart melted within me at the piteous sight. My

anger left me, as his wailing voice implored mercy. I left the throng,

who were hurrying him up towards the Lawnmarket, and hastened back to

the workshop, where I deposited the hammer, and threw myself upon my

bed; but I could not remain. The image of the wretched man, as he was

dragged forth, appeared to be by my side. Partly to know the result,

partly to ease my mind, I went again into the street. The crowds were

stealing quietly to their homes. From some neighbour apprentices I

learned the fatal catastrophe. I now became greatly alarmed for my

safety, as numbers who knew me well had seen my efforts against the door

of the jail. Bitterly did I now regret the active part I had taken. My

immediate impulse was to fly from the city; but in what direction I knew

not. Thus irresolute, I stood at the Netherbow Port, when the same

person that gave me the guinea at the jail-door approached to where I

stood. Embracing the opportunity, I told him the fear I was in of being

informed upon, when the magistrates began to investigate and endeavour

to discover those who had been active in the affair.

"'Well, my good fellow, follow me. It will not serve your purpose

standing there.'

"There were about a dozen along with him. We proceeded to the beach at

Fisherrow--going round Arthur's Seat, by Duddingston--and were joined by

many others. Two boats lay for them, on the beach, at a distance from

the harbour. We went on board and set sail for Fife, where we arrived

before morning dawned. I found my new friend and acquaintance was

captain and owner of a small vessel, who traded to the coast of Holland.

He scrupled not to run a cargo upon his own account, without putting the

revenue officers to any trouble, either measuring or weighing it. He had

been the intimate friend of Robinson, and often sailed in the same

vessel. I joined his crew; and, on the following day, we sailed for

Antwerp. But why should I trouble you with the various turns my fortunes

have taken for the last thirty-seven years? At times, I was stationary,

and wrought at my trade; at others, I was at sea. My home has

principally been in Rotterdam; but my heart has ever been in Auld

Reekie. Many a time I joined the crew of a lugger, and clubbed my

proportion of the adventure; my object being--more than the gain--to get

a sight of it; for I feared to come to town--being ignorant as to how

matters stood regarding my share in the Porteous riot. We heard in

Holland only of the threats of the government; but I was always rejoiced

to hear that no one had been convicted. Several years had passed before

it was safe for me to return; and, when it was, I could not endure the

thought of returning to be a bound apprentice, to serve out the few

months of my engagement that were to run when I left my master. Years

passed on. I had accumulated several hundred guilders, with the view of

coming to end my days in Edinburgh, when I got acquainted with a

townsman deeply engaged in the smuggling line. I unfortunately embarked

my all. He had some associates in the Cowgate, who disposed of, to great

advantage, any goods he succeeded in bringing to them. His colleagues on

shore had provided a coach and horses, with suitable dresses, to

personate Major Weir's carriage, agreeably to the most approved

description. The coach and horses were furnished by an innkeeper, whom

they supplied with liquors at a low rate. My unfortunate adventure left

the port, and I anxiously waited its return for several months; but

neither ship nor friend made their appearance. At length he came to my

lodgings in the utmost poverty--all had been lost. Of what use was

complaint? He had lost ten times more than I had--everything had gone

against him. His narrative was short. He reached the coast in safety,

and landed his cargo in part, when he was forced to run for it, a

revenue cutter coming in sight. After a long chase, he was forced to run

his vessel on shore, near St. Andrew's, and got ashore with only his

clothes, and the little cash he had on board. He returned to where his

goods were deposited--all that were saved. The coach was rigged out, and

reached the Cowgate in the usual manner, when it was attacked and

captured, in spite of stout resistance, by a party of citizens. What of

the goods remained in the neighbourhood of Musselburgh, were detained

for the loss of the horses and coach. I was now sick of Holland, and

resolved to return, poor as I left it, to the haunts of my happiest

recollections. To be rich, and riches still accumulating in a foreign

land, the idea of what we can at any time enjoy, a return--makes it

bearable. But poverty and disappointment sadden the heart of the exile;

and make the toil that would be counted light at home, a burden that

sinks him early in a foreign grave."

"Did your partner make no mention of carrying off one of the townsmen in

the coach?" said the treasurer.

"Excuse me, master, for not mentioning it," replied Walter. "He did give

me a full account of all that happened to you, and all you said; and

regretted, when he heard of your illness, what, at the time, he was

forced to do in self-preservation. When you fell out of the stair he

meant to enter, he knew not who you were--a friend he knew you could not

be, for only other two in the city had his secret. That you were a

revenue officer, on the look-out for him, was his first idea. He was as

much alarmed as you, until he found you were insensible. Not a moment

was to be lost. The goods were hurried out, and you placed in the

carriage, which was on its way from town before you showed any symptoms

of returning consciousness. His first intention was to carry you on

board his lugger, and convey you to Holland, then sell you to the Dutch

East India Company, that you might never return to tell what you had

been a witness of that night. The terror you were in, the sincerity of

your confession, and belief that you were in the power of the major,

saved you from the miserable fate he had fixed for you. Pity struggled

against the caution and avarice which urged him to take you away. Pity

triumphed--you had been both play and schoolfellows in former years. You

were released--you know the rest."

The wife and mother scarce breathed, while Wattie related the danger the

treasurer had been in; he himself gave a shudder--all thanked God for

his escape. Wattie Brown continued in his employ, as foreman over his

work, and died about the year 1789. Widow Horner did not long survive

that night of intense anguish--she died of a broken heart in her son's

house. It was remarked by all, that, while Thomas Kerr prospered, Walter

Horner, who was at one time much the richer man, gradually sank into the

most abject circumstances, and died a pensioner on his incorporation,

more despised than pitied. And thus ends our tale of Major Weir's famous

night airings in Edinburgh.

THE DIVINITY STUDENT.

"So fades, so perishes, grows dim, and dies,

All that the world is proud of."

WORDSWORTH.

Although the revelations of a divine philosophy have taught us no more

to entertain the blind notions of the Epicureans of old, that everything

is the result of chance--or to agree with the Stoics, that the

revolutions of the planetary system decree the fates and regulate the

actions of mankind--yet the vicissitudes of human life, and the

uncertainties of earthly hope, continue no less frequently to be the

theme of the poet, and the regret of the philosopher. The truth is deep;

nor is it ever suffered to be so long uncalled forth from our memories

as to allow of its force being blunted. Striking and melancholy examples

continually crowd upon us. Daily we are summoned to behold some noble

aspiration blasted--to behold youth cut off in the bud--learning

disappointed of its reward--worth suffering under the grip of

misfortune--and industry sowing the wind to reap the whirlwind. These

are dread and warning lessons to us, yet affording the surest marks of

proof, that this sublunary and distempered world cannot be the final

abode of man; that the seeds sown here will grow to maturity in a more

genial clime; and that the events which now baffle the scrutiny of our

moral reason, will yet appear to us revealed in clear and unperplexed

beauty.

The story I am now about to narrate is simple in the extreme, yet

affording scope for melancholy, and, it is to be hoped, not unprofitable

meditation.

Robert Brown, a Scottish carrier, living in a remote district in

Roxburghshire, contrived to bring up his family, consisting of five

sons, by a course of unwearied industry and rigid economy, to an age at

which the youngest had attained his sixteenth year--a time when it was

thought by his friends that he might be able to take himself as a

burthen from off his father's hands, and set about something towards his

ultimate provision for life.

Consistently with their humble condition in the world, his brothers had

all received the usual education of the Scottish peasantry--that is to

say, they had been taught reading, writing, and the elements of

arithmetic; and, at suitable ages, had been alternately called from

school to assist in farm work. They were fortunate in obtaining

employment from the neighbouring landlords; and, though the servants of

different masters, none of them were above two miles distant from their

father's cottage. William, the youngest, had been destined from the

cradle for something superior to the rest. They looked far forward,

through the vista of years, to him as the pride of their old age, and

the representative who was to carry down the respectability, credit, and

good name of the family, to the succeeding generation. So far from the

rest being chagrined at the partiality thus openly avowed, they

contributed, "each in his degree," to the furtherance of the plan

chalked out by their parents; judging, with honest pride, if William was

destined to move in a sphere somewhat superior to their own, that a

portion of the common approbation must necessarily be reflected on

themselves, his relations. Thus all were united and amiable; no selfish

and grovelling feelings introduced themselves to mar the cordiality of

affection, or interfere with motives so upright and so honourable.

The object of this concentrated flood of generous love was certainly not

an unworthy one. Having been born some years posterior to the other

members of the family, he had never been a sharer in the youthful

sports of his brothers, but was remembered by them as a favourite object

on their Saturday evening meetings at their father's cottage. The frame

of William was by no means so robust as that of the rest; and his dark

glossy hair only set off more plainly the pale, and sometimes sallow hue

of complexion. From both of these circumstances, his comparative youth,

and his comparative delicacy of constitution, he ran a considerable

chance of being, what is commonly termed, a spoiled child. He had, of

course, contracted, from indulgence, a waywardness of disposition,

which, however, by his innate modesty and good sense, was kept within

very excusable limits, and soon wore entirely away, as the forwardness

of boyhood began to subside into the more pensive thoughtfulness of

maturer years.

After having exhausted all the means of instruction which an adjacent

town supplied, he was obliged to have recourse to the grammar school of

a neighbouring parish, about four miles distant from his home. For two

years, neither summer's heat nor winter's snow were for a day allowed to

frustrate his walking thither. He never returned till late in the

afternoon; sometimes the evening star was the herald of his approach;

and, during the brief days, towards the end or about the commencement of

the year, darkness had set in before his face glimmered by the bickering

fire of his parental hearth. Habits of temperance had been familiar to

him all his days. Some cheese and oaten cake, regularly deposited in his

satchel, served him for dinner, during the interval of school hours,

after mid-day--and these he ate, walking about or reclining on the turf;

but the warm tea and toast always awaited his evening arrival, and were

set before him with all a mother's mindfulness and punctuality.

He was diligent at his books; and, being endowed by nature with good

parts, he made a very fair and promising progress. He had none of that

intellectual cleverness which makes advances by sudden fits and starts,

and then relapses into apathy and idleness; but his steady industry, his

attention, and his assiduity, gave omens favourable to his success,

while his gentle and conciliatory manners gained him not only the love

of his schoolfellows, but the esteem of his instructor.

It was now evident, that, from the pains and expense taken in regard to

his education, he was destined for the pulpit--that climax of the

honours and distinctions ever aimed at by a poor but respectable

Scottish family. Years of rigid economy had been passed, almost without

affording any hope as to the ultimate success and attainment of their

laudable end.

His destination, almost unknown to himself, having been thus early

fixed, it was resolved that he should be sent to Edinburgh, to attend

the college there, professedly as a student of divinity. The expense,

resulting from this resolution, bore hard upon their slender

circumstances; but they were determined still farther to exert

themselves, indulging the fond hope, that, one day or other, they would

reap the reward of their honourable endeavours in the prosperity of

their son.

To the university he set off, amid the ill-concealed tears of some, and

the open and hearty blessings of all--so much were they attached to one,

who, till that day, had never been even more temporarily separated from

them, without many a caution, perhaps little required, to guard against

the evil contaminations of the capital--little thinking, in their simple

minds, that the slender means allowed him were barely sufficient for

necessary purposes, without indulging in any uncalled for luxury, and

that gold is the only key that fits pleasure's casket.

He found himself seated in the Scottish metropolis, in a cheap but snug

and comfortable lodging, and encompassed by other sights and sounds

than those which he had been accustomed to. The change struck on his

heart with a low deep feeling of despondency, which a little time,

conjoined with the urbanity and kindness of all around him, was

sufficient to dissipate. The immense mass of lofty and majestic

buildings, exhibiting their roofs in widening circles around him, and

stretching far away, like the broken billows of an ocean, created

thoughts of tumult, discord, and perplexity, when contrasted with the

serene beauty of the calm pastoral district which he had left; and, amid

the nightly crowd of population which engirded him, a sense of his own

individual insignificance fell, with a crushing weight, on his spirit.

The deeply engrafted strength of virtue and religion, however, at length

prevailed, restoring to his mind its usual buoyancy; and he began to see

objects in the same degree of relative value, but with a widely enlarged

scope of sensation. He set about his studies with vigour and alacrity;

and, keeping in recollection the circumstances of his relatives, he

determined not only to avoid all unnecessary expense, but to exercise

the most rigid economy. Few hours were allowed to sleep, and almost no

time allotted to exercise and recreation. The hopes his father

entertained he determined should not be frustrated, nor the confidence

they reposed in him be shown erroneous, by any negligence on his part;

while, by persevering with assiduity and ardour, he trusted, sooner than

they expected, to relieve them of the burthen of his support--a burthen

which, he knew, could not fail to press heavy on them all, however

cheerfully supported.

In a course of the utmost economy, sobriety, and temperance, anxiously

endeavouring to allow no opportunity of improvement to pass by

unimproved, the winter session wore through, and left behind on his

heart very few causes for self-disapprobation.

Towards the end of April, the pale student returned to the cottage of

his father. Worn out by unwearied and unremitting studies, the vernal

gales of the country came like a balsam to reanimate his flagging

spirits; and the hopes that the object of so much exertion and care

would be ultimately crowned with success, gained a strong hold on the

mind it had threatened almost to forsake. In the crowd of the city he

felt too deeply his own insignificance--an isolated stranger, poor and

unknown of all, striving with a feverish hope, at rewards most likely to

be carried away by more powerful interests. But here he felt a grain of

self-importance return to elevate his fallen thoughts. The budding

hawthorn, the singing birds, and the blue sky, were all delightful; and

he began to lose his own bosom fears in the general exultation of

nature.

The first ebullience of parental joy at his return, together with the

congratulations of his affectionate brethren, having gradually subsided,

few days were indeed allowed for idle recreation; and the same

industrious course was persevered in.

Of the cottage, which consisted of three apartments, one of which served

for kitchen, another was entirely set apart for William, that no

interruptions might at any time disturb him. In the summer mornings he

was up with the lark; but he closed not his book with her evening song.

His studies were carried far into the silence of the night, and the

belated traveller never failed to mark the taper gleaming from the

window of his apartment.

Summer mellowed into autumn, which, with its fruitage, flowers, and

yellow corn fields, also passed away; and again the hoar-frost lay

whitely at morning on the wall of the little garden. Towards the end of

October, our student, a second time, set out on his journey to

Edinburgh.

The life of a college student is not one of incident or variety. Day

after day calls him to the same routine of employment; and week is only

known from week by the intervention of Sabbath repose. Suffice it,

therefore, to say, that the second season passed away like the first, in

frugal living and indefatigable exertion, and left our hero, at its

close, the same uncorrupted, simple-hearted, and generous-minded youth,

as when he first left the shadow of his father's door. His dress and his

manners were very little altered. Amid the hum and the bustle of

thousands, wealthy and toiling after wealth, he was an individual

apart--a hermit standing on the rock, and listening to the roar of

life's billowing ocean, but launching not his bark on its dim and

dangerous waters.

His delicacy made him feel acutely, that the expenses which he had

necessarily incurred, must weigh heavily on those upon whose open, but

necessarily circumscribed bounty, he depended. It was, therefore, agreed

on, at his own suggestion, to open a school for a season, in some one of

the neighbouring villages. He hoped, by this means, to be enabled to

raise a small fund for future exigencies, and to be indebted to his own

industry for what necessity had hitherto obliged him to be dependent for

on the bounty of others. Alas! this commendable design was but the

protracting of a course of study already too severe for his tender and

delicate constitution.

The scheme was, however, immediately acted on. A school in the village

of Sauchieburn was opened, and, in a brief space, everything succeeded

to the utmost of his expectations--for the school-room speedily began to

fill; and, by a conscientious discharge of his duty to his pupils, the

affection of their parents began to flow towards him. Although the

quarterly payments were small, he contrived to lay aside by much the

larger half. From the natural timidity of his disposition, conjoined

with the fear of making acquaintances which might lead him into

expenses, he lived almost alone, spending the leisure of his afternoons

in walking with his book in his hand through the fields; his evenings

passed over in solitary study.

Not long after his settlement, Mr. Allan, a farmer of some consideration

in the neighbourhood, requested him to devote an hour or two daily to

the tuition of his boys. In every point of view, this was a favourable

circumstance for him. His labours were handsomely remunerated; and an

introduction secured for him into a well-informed and rather elegant

circle.

The family in whose house he lodged were little removed above the order

of peasantry, but remarkable not only for their cleanliness and for the

comfort of their dwelling, but for that integrity in their small

concerns, and devout feeling of religious truth, still so frequently

found united to narrow circumstances in the nooks and byways of

Scotland, and constituting, certainly, not the least valuable gem in the

coronal of her honour. Here he was regarded with looks of love; and his

minutest wants attended to, with that scrupulous zeal which can only be

expected from parental tenderness. He was regarded not only as a member

of the family, but looked up to as something that was above them--doing

honour to their dwelling. Every possible care was taken to render his

situation as agreeable as possible to him; and his health was inquired

after, by the kind inmates, with the most anxious and affectionate

solicitude.

But the dark work was begun within, and the canker, which was to destroy

the rose of health, was already committing dreadful ravages. He uttered

no complaint; and, if pain was felt, its pangs were unacknowledged. A

languor of the eye, an unusual paleness of the face, and the bursting

forth of large drops of perspiration on the least exertion, were the

only indications of declining health. The school was attended to as

usual--not an hour was sacrificed to his weakness; and day succeeded

day, and week followed week, without relaxation and without amendment.

This could not last. The interregnum between receding health and

approaching disease is generally of short duration, and the vacant

throne is either greedily seized on by the angel or the demon.

He was getting gradually worse--gradually weaker. He had tried all those

little remedies commonly prescribed for coughs, without advantage, and

in secret. What was next to be done, he hardly knew. The school could no

longer be continued, as he was unable to leave his room. After so much

reluctant delay, a medical practitioner was consulted.

On inquiry, it was found that, for some weeks, he had been expectorating

blood--he had nocturnal perspirations, hectic flushes, and almost

incessant cough. His appetite was gone, and his whole frame in disorder.

Poor William said, that he hoped he should soon be better, and able to

persevere with his school. A week passed over, and matters were rapidly

getting worse; yet it was not without reiterated persuasions, that the

pale scholar could be persuaded to return for a season to the home of

his fathers.

We must not omit, that, during his confinement, every attention was paid

to William by the family of the Allans, and such small luxuries as his

state seemed to require were sent by them unsolicited. Mr. Allan himself

repeatedly called for him; and, one afternoon, as Miss Mary had walked

as far as the village, she summoned up resolution to inquire at the

door. William heard her voice, and requested her to come in. As he sat

in a large stuffed chair, propped with pillows, his appearance evidently

shocked her; and, when she wished to speak to him, her voice swelled in

her throat. He extended his hand to her, and told her he would soon be

better; but his long thin fingers thrilled her to the heart by their

touch. She stood for a minute beside him; and, after again shaking hands

with him, departed. Her sensations, during her solitary walk home, may

be more easily imagined than described.

It was noted by the servants, that Miss Mary happened to be always the

first to receive the communications of the messenger sent to the village

of Sauchieburn. It was also remarked that the tidings, whether

favourable or otherwise, could be read in a countenance not yet hardened

by artifice, as so to belie the feelings of the heart.

Home he returned at length. To paint the distress of the family, on that

occasion, at such a reappearance of one whom they had loved so tenderly,

for whom they had done, and were yet willing to do, so much, were a

heart-rending and melancholy task. As he entered the door, the mother

rushed out to embrace her weak and emaciated son; and, throwing her arms

around his neck, kissed his pale cheek with an agony of distress, while

the tears, in spite of opposition, gushed in burning drops over her

furrowed cheeks to the ground. The father grasped him by the hand, and

supported him, with cheering words, into the apartment which of old he

had inhabited. It had been but little used since he had last been its

occupant; and the neat, clean, but plain furniture, remained almost as

he had left it.

He was put to bed after the fatigue of travel, and every heart in that

house was sorrowful. The poor scholar could not fail to see the distress

so visible on his return; and his heart sank as the clouds of fate

lowered over him. His brothers, as they dropped in, one after another,

from the fields, approached affectionately to the bedside, and, taking

his long, thin fingers in their toil-hardened hands, lamented his case,

but cheered him with many a word of comfort, which almost belied

themselves, from the uncertain tone in which they were uttered. And no

wonder, for the alteration in his appearance was dreadful; and it was

evident, to the least observant glance, that the poor young man was far

gone in a consumption.

For some weeks the change of air, and the sight of so many countenances,

so anxiously interested in his welfare, seemed to work a favourable

change; and the gloom on his spirits began gradually to subside. In the

sunny fore-noons, a chair was placed for him in the little garden behind

the house. The spot commanded an extensive view of the country; and it

amused him to look on the jolly reapers in the neighbouring field, and

listen to their simple music while gathering in the yellow harvest

treasures. Around him were many tall ash-trees, well remembered in the

thoughts of other years. The gooseberry bushes, each of which was

familiar to his memory, had shed their fruits, and were beginning to

shed their leaves; but, on the later currants, some depending red and

white strings were yet visible. The summer flowers were disappearing;

but the more hardy roots, the spearmint, the gillyflower, the thyme, and

the southernwood, sent forth to the autumnal air "a faint decaying

smell." The beehive in the corner of the hedgerow was still unremoved,

and the buzz of its never idle inhabitants filled the whole air with a

continual pleasant murmur. The birds were all singing amid the beauty of

nature, and, ever and anon, the lark, springing up on twinkling wings,

sent a fainter and yet fainter note from its receding elevation.

So many agreeable images, so much affectionate attention, soothed the

wounds that no earthly medicine could heal. In a short time, debility

rendered him completely bed-ridden, and the tyrant of the human race

betokened his approach "by many a drear foreboding sign."

It was one evening, when all the brothers had dropped in, one after

another, that symptoms of rapid dissolution showed themselves. They sat

down in silence around the hearth, and looked frequently, first at

William and then at each other; while, at intervals, the fortitude of

manhood could not forbear a half stifled sob. They saw that the curtain

of death would soon be let down over eyes so beloved; and many a hurried

glance of affection--and the agitated countenance--and the quivering

hand--seemed to say, in silent eloquence, "Would to God I could die in

my brother's stead!"

William was not insensible to the afflicting scene around him. He told

them to bear up, and assured them that he suffered neither pain of body

nor mind. "Heaven is wise in all its decrees," said the dying youth;

"mourn not much for me; we shall, I trust, all meet again in Heaven. I

only set out on my journey a little while before you. I feel that I have

been much, too much of a burden to you all"----

Here he was eagerly interrupted by all of them, who conjured him not to

speak in that manner, and that it was almost unkind of him to do so.

"Well," continued William, "I feel your affection as I ought. The reward

hath not perished, and shall not be taken away, though now God calls

upon me to leave you."

He then requested his father to read to him the latter part of the 15th

chapter of 1st Corinthians, which he did with a composed and steady

voice, amid the silent tears of his children, and the frequent sobs of

the almost heart-broken mother, who leant with her face on the

bedclothes, holding in hers the emaciated hand of her son. The soul of a

mother can only comprehend the depth and the agony of her sufferings at

that hour, when called on to part with her last born--the Benjamin of

her small household.

In a short time his exhaustion was so great, that his efforts to speak

were unavailing, and he fell into a gentle slumber, from which he never

awoke--breathing his soul out upon the silent midnight without a groan!

However much the stroke of death may be expected, it never arrives

without a violent shock to the feelings of all around. Here the grief

was deep, but it was not upbraiding; and every pang was tempered by the

gentle consolations of Christianity.

The mournful news was communicated to the inhabitants of Sauchieburn;

and, amid the regrets of many a grateful parent, bright tears fell from

the eyes of childhood, at the thoughts of their kind instructor's death.

For a time, with the buoyancy of feeling incident to their years, they

had considered the few first day's of play as something favourable and

fortunate. Feeling the pleasurable effects, they forgot the melancholy

cause. But now the "hope deferred" was taken away, and nothing but

uncertainty and doubt were left in its place. They looked on the shut up

windows and closed door of the school-house with a mingled feeling of

curiosity and regret. The more affectionate said to each other, "our

master shall never hear us lessons any more; they are going to lay him

in the church-yard; we shall never see him again;" while the more

selfish-minded busied themselves with conjectures about him who should

come to them in his stead. The sorrows of childhood are of short

duration; the heart is then like the softened wax, which takes all

impressions--the one obliterates the other, and the last, whatever be

its import, is still the deepest.

Not so evanescent was the melancholy at the house of the Allans. The two

boys who had been under his charge spoke often of him as their kind

master to Miss Mary, who seldom answered them but with a stifled accent,

and an involuntary tear in her eye. That, almost unconsciously to

herself, some impression had been made on her heart was evident. The

feelings, perhaps, were reciprocal, for William had never mentioned her

but in terms of deep respect, mingled with something of tenderness and

admiration; but the wide gulf that separated them prevented him from

having, even for a moment, indulged one dearer hope.

Certain it is, from whatever cause it might arise, that the health of

Mary Allan declined rapidly, even to a state of the utmost delicacy; and

the cheerful, lively girl, could hardly be recognised in the pale,

emaciated, but still beautiful features, over which the ray of pleasure

now seldom shot even a transient gleam. But time, the grand physician of

all human troubles, by slow, but sure degrees, began the healing of the

wound so afflictingly felt by her, and by the whole cottage family.

Though, after the first burst of sorrow was over, each turned to his

wonted avocation, yet the mainspring of activity was felt to be broken;

and the heart often refuses, for a long period, to mould itself for the

reception of new feelings and altered objects. Life assumes a different

aspect; and the thoughts are often tardy to accommodate themselves to

change, and its inevitable concomitants.

The remaining brothers met in the cottage of their parents, as

heretofore, on the Saturday evenings; and, for a long time, the blank

was felt--a chair was unoccupied--a beloved face was absent; but

resignation to the decrees of Providence at length triumphed over the

yearnings of natural affection. The father, on whose temples the few

remaining hairs were changed to white, read the portion of Scripture

with accustomed gravity, from the "big ha' Bible;" and exhibited a

lesson, to all around, of noble, steadfast, and unshrinking piety.

The books, the papers, and everything that had belonged to William, were

preserved by his relations with an affectionate regard, amounting almost

to veneration; and, in a short time, a plain tombstone was erected at

the head of the turf under which his ashes lay, inscribed simply with

his name and age.

As the church was at more than two miles' distance from the cottage, the

family usually spent the intervals between the forenoon and afternoon

services, in loitering about the burial-ground. Around the grave of

William, often were the whole remaining family observed, seated in the

sunshine, upon the daisied turf, with their open Bibles in their hands.

The health of Miss Allan gradually recovered its former tone; but the

shock she had sustained threw a shadow of change over her whole

character. A degree of thoughtfulness and pensive grace hung around her

looks and motions, softening down sorrow to resignation, and gaiety to

cheerfulness. She grew more passionately fond of the beauties of

external nature, and enjoyed a serene pleasure in solitary walks.

Sometimes, in the light of the setting sun, when an azure shadow hung

over the hills, when the clouds were tipped with refulgent glory, and

the note of the blackbird, "most musical, most melancholy," burst on the

ear from the neighbouring coppice, the eye of the passenger has,

unawares, intruded on the privacy of her grief, as she stood silently

gazing on the grave of him who had gone up before her into heaven.

END OF VOL. V